In the summer of 1790, roughly a year after George Washington became the first president of the United States, he and Thomas Jefferson hit the now proverbial campaign trail to garner support for the Bill of Rights. On August 18, 1790, Washington arrived in Newport, Rhode Island, where he was greeted by Moses Seixas, warden of the local Hebrew Congregation, who wrote to the president, "we now … behold … a Government erected by the Majesty of the People — a Government which to bigotry gives no sanction, to persecution no assistance … deeming every one, of whatever Nation, tongue, or language, equal parts of the great governmental machine." Washington's warm reply to Seixas' letter would later become known as "Letter to the Touro Synagogue" and would become a model of religious tolerance for posterity.
But, have you ever heard of Moses Seixas? I hadn't until reading about him in my American literature to 1855 class this semester. Did you know that Washington's famed "Letter to the Touro Synagogue" was really an echo of Seixas' words and ideas, and the most hailed passage from the letter, which speaks of allowing "to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance," was actually borrowed from Seixas' original letter to the president? I'd be willing to bet that if you stopped 10 random people on the street, many of them wouldn't have a clue either. This is precisely why I'm interested.
My goal is not to disrespect or attack Washington. The president's reply was cordial, and the language he used that echoed Seixas' words conveys a message of compassion and solidarity. What I'd like to discuss here is this: How is history constructed? What gets saved in our cultural memory, and what does not? Who gets to speak, and who does not?
To be fair, as Washington was the first president of the United States, particular attention should be paid to preserving his writings. But also consider this: What sort of a history is being constructed if we emphasize and preserve only the voices of privilege and power? Fortunately, a de-centering of the white male subject in literature of the postmodern era has provided a stage for others, such as Seixas, to be heard.
Furthermore, there is a bit of irony about "persecution" in the context of Washington's letter to Seixas. The words, "to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance," really resonated in my mind as hypocrisy. In the year 1799, nearly nine years after he wrote to Seixas condemning persecution, Washington created a slave list as a part of his will, in which he counted 317 slaves under his possession at Mount Vernon. I wonder what the president's slaves would have said about his famous words, if given the opportunity to speak.
Additionally, we need to ask: While the idea of religious tolerance is a foregrounding concern in Washington's letter to Seixas, was this idea actually practiced? Again, my goal here isn't to rip the president's words to shreds but merely get us thinking about what is preserved in our history. While Washington's words served to soothe Seixas and assure him that the Jewish community would be safe under the government of the United States, did Washington actually embrace religious tolerance, or was it only in a monotheistic sense?
Consider the "plan of civilization," in which the federal government of the United States under the leadership of Washington set out to assert hegemony over Native Americans, encouraging them to adopt Christianity and forsake their own cultures. This isn't exactly a shining example of tolerance. I just think it is worthwhile to consider actions and not just the words written in "Letter to the TouroSynagogue."
Too often we see a narration of the past told though the eyes of an individual or a small group of individuals. I'm interested in the complete story. As we try to glean meaning from history, it is imperative that we examine the past and the status quo through a historiographical lens, always considering whose voice we are hearing and who is silent.
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Diane Wegge is a sophomore majoring in English.
